Dirty Laundry

Hey kids, it's time to gather your washing basket and pegs we;re off to a new laundromat.
While we've had lots of good clean family fun here in Moveable Type land, the birthplace of Dirty Laundry, it seems we have out-grown our old home and a fancy new destination awaits.

Our new home has some sleek new furniture that will make it much easier for you to post comments, vent, argue with Stumpy and tell me what for. Everyone is welcome, feminazis, the Monogamy Movement, cry babies, Mr Mums and male chauvinists included. All you have to do is sign up.

We dare not admit it, we don't like talking about it, and if accused of it we'll deny it, but I think we're all grown up enough here at Dirty Laundry headquarters to discuss the ugliest of parenting faux pas.

Sometimes at night I pray my lost love will return and all will be right in my world once more. Many years have passed since I last knew the peace and security, the contentment, only my love could bring.

I'm being stalked. My daughters too are on the run from the mega marketing monstrosities who are seeking women out and targeting them through explicit publicity campaigns objectifying and sexualising women and girls in a bid to sell their products.

When I was a kid we rode our bikes through the bush, climbed very tall trees, ate Bunya nuts for dessert, played in the street, walked for hours out of town just because we felt like it, and went fishing in a creek in the middle of nowhere with not an adult in sight.

This was a question out of the mouth of my eight-year-old. Aside from my jaw dropping open in stunned silence, my heart sank as I contemplated the possibility all my hard work instilling the virtues of tolerance, diversity and a love for all had somehow come unstuck.

How about "all hail Constance and Scott"? The two (sexually frustrated) scientists with enough time on their hands to study 7000 couples and in turn provide every woman with enough ammunition to dodge sex from now to eternity - or at least until next week.

I saw it in very quietly, no random pashes at midnight (you know that happens most years right?), no drunken discussions about politics or philosophy, no streamers or party poppers, just a very respectable warm lamb salad with friends and a glass or two of bubbly.

With just three more sleeps before emergency services are inundated with over-indulged, Christmas-related, prawn-in-the-eye, domestic disputes, I've been keeping a close eye on the family dynamics in the lead up to Christmas lunch and associated get togethers.

I was raised by a woman. No man left an impression on my childhood. All parental guidance was imparted via the wisdom of my mother. Does this mean I'm less of the person I could have been? Only half of what I should have been? Did I miss out on something only a father could give?

Imagine growing a baby inside you for nine months, battling hormones and a changing body shape, surviving morning sickness and feeling your little bundle moving and growing, then finally giving birth before the newborn is taken from you and given to his or her "real" mother.

The smooth running of a family is all about the numbers. How many seatbelts are needed? How many seconds before Jimmy's snow cone ends up on the floor? How many days between when a cheque clears and we all have to eat cabbage for dinner?

Mother, wife, housekeeper and family diplomat Heidi Davoren does a lot of laundry. She can peg a line full of undies quicker than George Bush can duck a flying shoe. For those of you who battle the mundane and ridiculous on a daily basis – school fees, preservatives, family budgets, soiled pants and banana stains – gorge on guilt-free parenting advice here.

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